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for me. “Here you go, darlin’,” she says, with the kind of sugar smile that I’m sure is only reserved for adorable old women like myself, eccentrics who wear baseball caps as they waddle charmingly over with their canes from their heavily decaled recreational vehicles. (John always had a weakness for those stickers with the state name in bold letters and “Land of Wonder” or some such motto beneath it. The rear end of the Leisure Seeker is barnacled with them.)
    Not that I doubt her sincerity. I don’t. I’m always pleased tosee a kind face these days, and especially attached to someone bearing food.
    “Thank you, miss,” I say, as I hand over the dollar bills, unable to conjure up the same regional graciousness.
    “You have a good day, ma’am.”
    There is a burr in her voice, a midwestern flatness that I did not expect here in the middle of the Ozarks, but find quite comforting. We midwesterners, I think, sometimes notice other folks’ accents more readily, because ours is, in many ways, so nondescript. But when I hear the variants of our hard r ’s and nasally twang, it makes me appreciate our native tongue, the planklike dialect that matches our terrain.
    We sit for a while in the van and sip juice, eat grapes, along with some Chicken in a Biskit crackers. It’s an odd combination, one that I’m not sure I approve of, but I didn’t feel like rooting around in the back for anything more substantial. Anyway, I’m just happy to have an appetite. The grapes are luscious, dark and juicy, so I tuck a napkin under my collar as I eat. Neither of us says anything. John occasionally makes a small approving grunt, but that’s it. It’s good this way, good that we’re not speaking. Speaking would only ruin it. For a moment, I am so happy I could cry. This is exactly the sort of thing that makes traveling wonderful for me, the reason I defied everyone. The two of us together like we have always been, not saying anything, not doing anything special, just on vacation . I know nothing lasts, but even when you know that things are just about over, sometimes you can run back and take a little bit more and no one will notice.

     
    We drive an old, old stretch of 66—curbed, pinkish, and veined with tar—until it turns into Teardrop Road, which takes us to the Devil’s Elbow, a twisty route over a rusted iron suspension bridge across the Big Piney River. Names like “Big Piney River” make me smile, remind me that I am nowhere near my birthplace, where the rivers have names like Rouge and St. Clair. (It occurs to me how French and fancy these names sound. Let me assure you that Detroit is neither. Even in the ’50s, when it was booming, it was a tough industrial town, fat with swagger and edged with grime. Yet I can’t imagine my life occurring anywhere else but where it did.)
    After a bathroom and gas stop in Arlington, Route 66 disappears and we are forced back on I-44. Though the books tell us how to get back onto the old road after a short distance, we cheat a little and stay on the interstate. At yet another Springfield, I direct us back onto the old road.
    “How are you feeling, John? You doing all right?”
    John nods, runs a hand over his head, then wipes his hand on his sleeve. “I’m all right.”
    “You tired? Want to find a place to stop for the night?” I’m asking him, but I suspect it’s me that really wants to call it a day. I feel sore and shaky. I am experiencing discomfort .
    “Yeah, okay.”
    Of course, once we decide to stop, we can’t find a place to stay to save our lives. We meander through a braid of towns with curious names: Plew, Rescue, and Albatross; old places of logand stone. In a town called Carthage, we find a campground that will do. We pay our money and set up shop for the night.
     
    The late afternoon sun is too intense, so we sit at our table inside the Leisure Seeker. I turn on a little fan, take my afternoon meds, and settle in to read an old Detroit Free Press